Bowmore 12
by HyfrydCymru
Summary: The heart hears what it wishes most dearly to hear and overheard conversations often lead to terrible misunderstandings. ((A Scoteng fanfic with a dash of one-sided!Usuk))
1. The Pub in Lyon

Alfred F. Jones was going insane.

It all started in March, with England's hand resting on his lower back just a moment too long to be anything short of deliberate but gone soon enough that a slip of mind could excuse it. After all, he was reaching for the drink just across the bar from America, who happened to be just a tad bit sturdier than the hardened wood of the Irish pub the G8 had gathered in once all was said and done and the meeting was called off after three long days of charts and always fluctuating averages.

Trivial as it was, the incident was soon forgotten by Alfred, who found a better use of his memory in his newest mechanical project (because, paper work be dammed, he was a man of action, not long term planning and those pistons were _begging _to be toyed with). It wasn't until one late afternoon weeks later that he asked himself, pondered for a moment, what it would feel like to have that touch linger past fortuity and into familiarity.

That line of thought was soon dispelled. Boxed, taped, and shoved to the deepest corner of his mind. (Dismissed, yes, but not _forgotten._)

Meetings came and went and often times lasted too long but little by little Alfred began to realize he didn't mind spending copious amounts of time sitting straight and keeping still if it meant spending a moment longer with England sitting by his side, making quipping comments and all for long, exasperated sighs should America even dare to open his mouth. _England, _and he had begun to stare. And if he had thought that the distraction of Arthur's cutting jaw was terrible enough, nothing had prepared him for when the Briton started staring back.

By September, America was catching the wayward glances and the subtle smiles of a man that thought himself unwatched (and was, really, all the contrary, Alfred hated to admit to himself). Their knees brushed under the table, their hands found a way graze when they walked together (_too close, _Alfred cursed, and yet wanted nothing more than to pull the other closer). When the young man finally found the courage to throw an arm over England's shoulder one evening and Arthur made no move to shrug him off, his heart soared. Understandably, when Arthur walked into the room the next day, not only late but scowling like someone had pissed in his morning cuppa and made him drink and choosing to sit away from all (away from Alfred), soaring turned to worry. This ebbing of spirit sunk into miserable apprehension when for the first time in close to a year England snapped and scoffed at his presence, refusing his invitation for a cordial dinner and choosing instead to meander off with France. **That** meant heavy drinking, which translated to trouble; America's job was to keep them out of trouble, so he followed. And because jealousy is an ugly thing, he eavesdropped.

"Francis, it is wearing my patience thin. Try to understand."

England and France sat on opposite sides of a tavern's table. It was an old alehouse, a quaint little thing just outside the skirts of Lyon, which they both frequented.

"Arthur, " Francis responded almost condescendingly "it is _you_ who seems unable to come to sense. "

Arthur growled at that and brought a hand to his temple to keep what was undoubtedly a migraine at bay.

"It is not…" another growl and then he was giving France a pointed stare, hand gone from his face to wrap around a pint of stout "For fuck's sake, he is just as bad, perhaps worse. You know it. I know it. HE knows it!"

"You speak of him as though you are speaking of a great burden you cannot wait to be rid of." the Frenchman reasoned with a drink of wine "And yet, here we sit."

Arthur laughed and the sound nearly threw Alfred down from the seat he was perched upon.

"And yet here we sit." the Englishman chorused "I'll drink to that."

"Santé, old friend." Francis' smile was wide and sincere as they raised their glasses "Or better yet," his smiled turned impish "Slàinte."

England sputtered and scowled, gifting the unwilling ears of any bystander with more curses than could be considered healthy for a proper individual, until he deemed it appropriate to drown his tirade in beamish stout. Meanwhile, France cackled freely, the sound so far away from anything America had ever heard from his lips that he had to bite down hard into his tongue to withhold a snicker. The joke itself, however, was lost to him. Perhaps he should have spared a moment in understanding but England's sigh, and the change in mood it brought, hooked him back into the conversation.

Both Francis and Arthur were quiet for a moment. The former waited patiently with a knowing smile as the second appeared to gather his wits.

"He is my brother, Francis". England shifted to French and continued in a lowered voice.

France hummed appreciatively, took up his glass and swivelled the contents to watch them spin and settle to then spin them a second time.

"Yes." he conceded.

"But…" Arthur supplied with practiced ease, sensing a continuation in the Frenchman's hesitation.

"You want him," was the deadpan affirmation supplied "and he wants you." added before he drained the remaining liquor.

England was silent and Alfred felt his heart speed.

"…. for how long, do you think?" Arthur ventured softly enough.

"It would be hard to say." Francis admired the way the crystal cup reflected light in his hand "But I have seen the way he looks at you, Arthur. And I'd dare say since the very beginning. "

"I have wronged him countless times…"

"And he has you." Francis finished for him putting his empty glass down and frowning. "Who raised who, who fought who, who won over in the end. You're making excuses that are hardly solid enough to be considered such. Does it truly matter? Of course it does not. You have come to me for advice and I have spoken my thoughts on the matter. Argue with me; I do not expect anything less from you. But hear me, Arthur, when I say that you have stalled for far too long already, the both of you, when things could be simpler. You deserve it, HE deserves it, so do yourselves a favour and give it a chance. Wait a century longer, if you so please, but for Heaven's sake _do_ it before you drive yourself mad and me with you."

A heavy silence stood stagnant after France's diatribe. England's voice, when he spoke again, was almost doting.

"I love him, Francis."

To that, Francis had to chuckle crudly.

"And yet, here you sit. "

The conversation shifted from there on, ranging from sports to politics to nothing. The mood lightened considerably as the minutes passed and when minutes turned into hours and two more rounds were drained, the Anglo-French duo bid farewell to the barmaid at the counter, paid their due, and took their leave without further ado, both ignorant to the fact that they left behind a young American with rosy cheeks and a pounding heart.

* * *

Just as a quick footnote for those unfamiliar with the terms: santé and slàinte are both toasts (in french and scottish gaelic respectively), the later of which I like to call foreshadowing.

About France and England, I truly cannot fathom how they could be fighting every breathing moment of their lives. After this long together, I'd figure they share quite a cordial relationship.

I'll try to update this as frequently as I can; the following chapter might be up in a week or so. Do point out any mistakes you may find, I would truly appreciate that.

Cheers!

HyfrydCymru (Iv)


	2. A Scotman's Cologne

America decided to act when the last meeting of the year came to an end and the attending nations filtered out of the meeting room in one of Paris' most alluring hotels.

"What's cooking, good lookin'?"

England stared blankly at America for a moment before scowling in a very unbecoming manner. Regardless, if the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth was anything to go by, Arthur was just playing along. America's own smile widened.

"Come on. I'm bored and I'll buy you a drink. It's the last session of the year; gotta end it right." Alfred leant back on the meeting room's table, all boyish charm and self-assured confidence. "Besides, I wanna spend some time with you. You've been pretty withdrawn lately; keeping secrets, old man?"

England barked out a laugh but his countenance turned coy for a moment as he continued to arrange his notes into neat heaps before placing them inside the portfolio he carried with him as or late.

"Do refrain yourself from uttering one more of those god awful lines and I'll consider that dink for another time." Arthur half glared, half smiled as he finished packing up and pushed his chair back to stand.

Alfred pouted, outwardly disappointed but holding on a silver of hope.

"Come on, is it really the pick up lines? Because I have better ones, just give me a second."

America cleared his throat and England snorted as they made their way to the double doors and out into the hotel lobby. As they reached the entrance, it began.

"There's the exit, will you go out with me?"

"Someone pass the tartar sauce, 'cause you're a real catch."

"Roses are red, violets are blue, how would you like it if I came home with you?"

"I don't have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?"

"Alfred, for God's sake!"

America delighted in England's restrained, half exasperated amusement.

"Just one more," he promised as they came to a stop down the end of the street. "Do you have any raisins? How about a date?"

England groaned.

"How very charismatic of you, America."

"The public loves it."

"Oh, I am sure of it " sarcasm tinged every word but England's eyes turned fonder. "But I'm afraid I must one again decline your invitation. I'm hoping to catch the eight o'clock caravan back to Folkestone."

The disclosure caught Alfred off guard. It was unusual for England to leave right after the end of a meeting, especially if it was held so close to his own homeland.

"Is it work? 'Cause dude, you gotta take a break some time." Alfred frowned, suddenly less concerned about a warm meal (and good company) and more about the slight weariness in the elders stance.

"It is partly work, yes. But I've other maters to attend to as well" he clapped America on the shoulder good-naturedly. "I'll make it up to you some other time."

The younger smiled, disappointment once again in place but deliberately masked with pleasantness. Reservations had been made, true, but a table for two was easily arranged into a single sitter.

"I'll hold you to that promise, old man. Might even drop by some time soon, demand a proper tour of your place; the whole bulk of it. Hey!" Alfred beamed "I know, how about we go to that place we met at back in March after the G8 meeting? Kelly's Basement?"

"Kelly's Cellars" England supplied.

"That's the one. A good beer there and all's forgiven. Whaddaya say?"

"I say, the first round's on me" Arthur smirked as he hailed down a cab (an act close to magic, given that the god forsaken Parisian December seemed to lack public transport in its entirety). "Well, lad, I expect the A16 to be Hell and the fare to be overpriced, so I bid you farewell."

America grinned, indulging on wrapping an arm around the former's shoulders and leading him to his taxi. He let go soon enough, if only to open the door for the Englishman.

"Sure thing. You take care to catch a wink soon."

England was half way seated, guarded smile gracing his features, when America's brain processed what had struck him as odd since earlier that day.

"Hey, Arthur, are you wearing a new cologne?" he asked.

All things taken into account, England was one of the nations who rarely went for scented products, soaps or otherwise. A couple of decades back he had taken to using a Fougère fragrance gifted to him by France, but the lavender based scent was a far fetch from the smooth mix of smoky, peaty, and amber whiff Alfred had caught just then. It was a pleasant spice, he reflected. Not something specifically _England, _per say, but doubtlessly complimentary to him. Nevertheless, it was foreign enough to pique the young nation's curiosity.

America's interest was magnified when England seemed to hesitate.

"Ah, that, well" a pause to regain his composure, and then a firm inquiry "Is it too noticeable?"

The look in Arthur's eyes as he spoke threw Alfred off for a moment. There wasn't a challenge, far from it, really, but rather it was as though he was reticently asking for something akin to validation.

"Nah, it suits you, I think. It's a bit strange, but it suits you." it took him a moment to answer and somehow, Alfred felt he was providing more with that simple reply than what Arthur had asked of him; something a lot more important than weather or not a cologne fit his character.

England had been in a brilliant mood all day, laughing along to his jokes, joining in even, and exchanging pleasantries with all of those who approached but the smile he gave America just then was dazzling. Alfred's breath caught in his throat.

"Thank you."

Without another word, Arthur shut the cab's door, relieving the aggravated taxi driver and leaving America behind, heart pounding painfully, for the second time in three months.

Later in the evening and back in his hotel room, America paced and pondered only to arrive to the same conclusions time and time again. He'd bestowed his dinner reservation upon Mathew, who had gladly accepted, and retired for the evening with a heavy heart.

Summed up for convenience: whilst on the lift to his room's floor, he'd come upon three simple and direct realizations. He loved England, that much was clear, and a close examination of behaviour with the added benefit of an eavesdropped conversation provided him with the conclusion that England himself was caught in the same love or infatuation. The third realization was that no matter how much he tossed and turned and paced the length of the room, he wanted to be near Arthur more than standing idly by in Paris. Along with that third realization came the urgent need to reach out to his intended as soon as humanly possible.

Luckily for Alfred F. Jones, he wasn't human and neither where his colleagues.

Picking up the phone and dialling a long ago memorized number, he waited for the dial tones to ring as he studied the digital clock on his bedside table. It was now 8:30, meaning that England was well on his way to Folkestone, perhaps only a few minutes away from arriving. From there he'd probably head up to the Folkestone Central Station and take the 9 o' clock train to London which, provided it wasn't delayed, would take him to Charing Cross via Tonbridge, arriving at its destination at 10:52. By the time he reached his home in the outskirts, it would be well past midnight.

"_Alò_?" after five rings, the voice at the other side of the line startled America out of his calculations.

"France! Hey man!" the young American felt himself smile in excitement. "Listen, I need a favour."

At exactly 9 o' clock, Alfred was boarding the Eurostar train headed straight from Paris to London.

Although he had intended for his two-hours-and-fifteen-minutes to go by smoothly and possibly even catch England at Chagrin Cross by surprise, sweep him off his feet and lead him home for the evening, there was only so much America and France's subordinates could control.

What had at first been a simple routine check up before departure had blown up to a full scan of the tracks for reasons Alfred couldn't be bothered to inquire about. By the time they had actually departed from Paris, the clock had ticked past ten o' clock. As luck would have it, he'd arrived to Chagrin Cross Station past one in the morning and just a few minutes late for the last departing trains, which left him stuck there until the tube services resumed at four.

Unwilling to desist once he'd made it so far, and out of sheer stubbornness and strength of will, he found himself standing on England's home's doorstep at 3:33 and not a minute later.

The cold December air chilled him to the very bones and his dampened clothes stuck to his figure in a way that was both obstructive, and scant against the bite of the English winter. The morning dew on the windows had frosted over the course of the night and not a sound could be heard from inside the house or its surroundings. That much had been expected, as not only was the property isolated but the early hour guaranteed a mantle of hushed tranquillity.

Barely a moment away from his true destination (between England's arms, Alfred had found himself day dreaming on the dreadful journey from the Station to here) America froze, and the one liner was not lost on him.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Looking back on the whole of his ordeal and his motives, the mere concept smacked him across the face as absolutely preposterous. But now, here he was; standing, half frozen in the chilled air of the early morning, fist ready to knock on the door before him, ready to wake up Arthur on a whim only to declare his feelings to a possibly irate and exhausted Englishman and causing more drama than was necessary. All of it after having spent hours travelling on (truthfully) France's kindness or perhaps exasperation after listening to Alfred rambling on and on about how imperative it was for him to reach England that moment and say what he had had a chance to say for two hundred god damned years and could say tomorrow, or in a week, perhaps even in two hundred god damned years more.

But, then again, what is life without a bit of good old Hollywood grandeur? It was much too late to turn back, anyway and if somehow his words could make England smile the way he had on that Taxi seat again, he'd cover the whole journey on his knees, if he had to.

Gathering his wits around him, Alfred nearly pounded on the door.

The silence engulfed him one more, this time more unnerving than anything else. Hoping to relief if only his anxiety, he strongly knocked one again, hinges rattling under his strength. He began to loose hope as the minutes went by and his call remained unanswered but the muffled sound of heavy footsteps headed for the door stopped him halfway from turning around and leaving to find a motel that would take him.

Suddenly the air felt too warm and his feet light enough to sprint to Calais, smile widening enough that he was sure he looked near manic. Hands shaking and blood rushing, he listened as the footsteps came to a stop in front of the door. At that point, ire or mirth, all Alfred wished for where for a pair of green eyes to peer at him from the other side of the unhindered doorframe.

As the latch was undone and the knob turned, America held his breath…

… only to release it as wrong pair of green eyes came into view along with the naked chest of a Scotsman who wore nothing more than a ratty pair of old, grey jogging bottoms and a deeply set scowl.

"Fuck ye dain, bairn? "

After which the door was promptly shut and locked again.

* * *

Introducing everyone's favourite Scottish bastard. Quick fyi, he's not wearing anything under those jogging bottoms.

Also, the cologne Arthur was wearing was Sotland's own; it probably just rubbed off on him. When America assures him that the scent fits him, he's pretty much validating the fact that the _owner _of the cologne fits him too, hence the gratefulness as he's been doubting himself as of late.

Fougère frangrances have lavander undertones and a woody scent, both of which are a classic favoured by men.

The smoky, peaty, aber scent I'm attributing to Scotland's eau here is based on the aroma of a 12 year old, Islay Bowmore. As an interesting fact, their slogan reads _Fioghinn agus Soir Bhuanaghadh, _which is Islay Gaelic for "Full and excellent quality." Bowmore twelve is recommended as an after-dinner drink with a splash of water and is one of my favoured distilleries.

Sorry for not updating any sooner, fuck finals, and have a lovely read!

Next chapter is Scot's time to shine.

-HyfrydCymru


	3. London

Glaring at the train indicator board in Charing Cross station as though it had personally offended him, England wondered if perhaps he could will the departure and arrival times to change by sheer strength of will. It wasn't so much the timings, mind you, but rather the aggravating sight of the word "cancelled" featuring, nice and lucent, next to any possible line he could take home.

He let his shoulders slump, feeling downright beguiled. Somewhere along the 49-minute commute from Tonbridge to his current location, he had been contacted by the plummy-voiced, fuckup of a handshaker, MP who was not only disagreeable at the best of times but had been giving him Hell for _months. _He'd been informed, in the most pleasant of ways, of course, that the usual week provided as a reasonable time frame for the construction of an efficient event report after international meetings had been cut down to a mere three days, as it was deemed too gratuitous, as well as asked to thoroughly elaborate on the finer points, as his previous reports had been "too vague in the relevance of the apotheoses cited". Not only that, but his presence was required at Downing Street tomorrow at midday, at latest, to pick up a fresh load of paperwork and a list of new, lavish demands to be met as of yesterday, as well as to deliver the signed, revised copy of the three electoral manuscripts pertaining the coming general election for the 56th Parliament of the United Kingdom, two of which were not even remotely finished., let alone edited by anyone other than himself.

And tonight, of all nights, after a hustling day, and an unnecessarily tedious journey back to England (because he could have, _could have, _taken the direct train from Paris to London had the bloody thing not been accursedly booked), he was stuck in Charing Cross.

Holding on to unfounded hope, he pulled out his mobile from the inner pocket of his mac coat. Slight as it may be, there was a chance that, perhaps, some poor soul would be inclined to come to his aid, late as it was (the clock on the board had blinked green-yellow and now marked the hour as 11:20), and that he wouldn't have to brave the dark streets of London to find yet another cab and pay yet another fare for the day. When the screen remained dark after several attempts turning it on, he felt _overjoyed._

Lovely. Fucking _brilliant. _

His prospects just kept improving by the minute.

"Stop sulking, I brought the car" a gruff voice interrupted his more dire thoughts.

England felt his lips curl at the edges into a discreet smile as he became aware of the sturdy footsteps coming up behind him and the solid presence that came to a standstill by his side.

"I didn't know you were in London."

"Surprise."

Without another word, Scotland turned and made way towards the exit; England couldn't help but smile wider (if only ever so slightly) as he followed swiftly behind.

Scotland's SUV was an older Jeep model (a great bulk of a car that had been parked next to England's much smaller Chevy since the last time the broad-shouldered redhead had stayed over, much like the small flask of cologne left behind in Arthur's bathroom) that he drove with practiced ease through any given terrain. Although his turns were sharp in nature, it was unusual for him to go anywhere over the speed limit, proving himself a responsible driver far more reliable than others could ever claim to be.

Some short distance away from England's home in the outskirts, curiosity put an end the silence.

"Why did you come?" thoughtful as the gesture had been, it was much too unlikely for Scotland to have come all this way south just to collect his desponding kin.

"Wales called" the Scotsman replied as he made a turn and accelerated down a straight stretch of road. "Darling lassie's been roped in to finish up some document revisions fer that MP of yers. The bampot had her half drowned with work afair noon and her National Assembly needed her at hand; a-wiz-nae busy so I came down from Embra tae take over" his look turned smug although he kept his eyes trained on the road. "Figured I'd cut some slack fer yer bonnie self while I was available" at that, England scoffed and Scotland positively beamed.

The remainder of the journey was spent in quiet conversation. When they pulled up to England's driveway they were cordially bickering over one thing or another (the argument ignited by England's broken down heating system), tossing half hearted taunts around out of habit, but gradually easing into a pleasant closeness. As they shrugged off their coats in the entrance, Arthur placed a gentle hand on the Scotsman's arm, who in time went out of his way to brush the younger's lower back as they went up the stairs.

Late as it was they forwent showers; Scotland headed for the drawers in the reach-in closet of England's room (a disarray of clothes left behind when he shuffled through fabrics until _aha! I knew I was missing this pair of trousers, cunning wee bastard_, and he was pulling old, grey jogging bottoms from where they had been hidden, underneath a hideous jumper, courtesy of Wales), while England brushed his teeth in the adjacent bathroom (silently mourning the discovery of the sweat pants as they were loose, and warm, and it was winter) still suited but considerably less tense than he had been a few hours prior. As the later was done and returned to the bedroom, the Scotsman stepped forwards, clad in his re-stolen goods, and ruffled the younger's hair fondly before entering the still lit bathroom.

It is strange, the way things often fall together smoothly when they are long overdue.

Arthur worked off his suit jacket and tie with deft fingers, folding them over the back of an antique chair in the room, and kicked off his shoes, nudging them to the side without much of a care of where they went. He had started on the buckle of his belt when he heard the water faucet in the bathroom turn off and Scotland's muffled shuffling as he returned to the master bedroom.

Once again, a large hand came to tousle his hair but this time trailed down the back of his neck instead of retreating, came to rest on his right shoulder, nudging him slightly to turn around. Arthur complied, turning around and coming closer. He brought his hands to the sides of Scotland's neck, tracing the shadow of his dark, auburn stubble and feeling particularly lenient under the familiar green of his eyes.

"Alasdair."

Scotland's free hand came to rest low on England's hip and pulled him closer, the other coming to join soon after.

"Aye?"

"Thank you."

Alasdair smiled in a way that was three parts rough and one part affectionate, and Arthur felt an urge to wipe the bloody smirk off his face so he leaned forwards to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Scotland's mouth, lingering there to feel the brush of the elder's breath on his cheek and the way his features softened into something less guarded. Calloused fingers slipped past the band of Arthur's trousers and began working on the button and zipper, every movement kept deliberately slow. With a little assistance from the Englishman, they were soon pooling on the floor around his feet and kicked to the side to be found tomorrow. (And then Scotland's fingers were firmly locked into England's hair, tugging and fisting strands of golden tan, as England wrapped strong arms around Scotland's well built back. They stumbled back towards the bed in a flurry of kisses, bites, and caresses. The mattress protested loudly when they fell onto it unceremoniously in a heap of limbs and wayward fabrics, Arthur pressed down into the bed under Alasdair's greater frame and weight.)

Slowing down to a stop, they broke apart to breathe but kept close enough for their noses to brush (Alasdair had freckles, sparse and light all through the year and darker during the summer months, same as Arthur; a Kirkland family trait). Even when he was being gentle, there was always a lingering undertone of roughness to Scotland's touch, but never had he ever hurt England before; not in moments like this. The way he stroked his sides was reassuring, almost comforting in nature, his weight sturdy and safe.

England reached up to kiss Scotland deep and sweet, and letting his eyes slip close. Bucking up, he heard Alasdair groan and took great pleasure in repeating the action once, twice, and then thrice again. Scotland's roaming hands came to a halt in order to grasp England's thighs firmly and use them as leverage when he ground his hips down hard.

Scotland felt a pang of heat coil low on his abdomen when he heard Arthur hiss beneath him. Removing his lips from the other's, he began trailing soft nips down the side of England's face, moving down to the side of his neck to bite an d suck at every spot he could find. He felt, more than heard, Arthur's sigh as the younger's fingers carded lovingly through tangled auburn hair.

It took a while for Alasdair to notice when the carding stopped and England's breathe slowed down. Alarmed, he'd looked up to find the serene expression of a man asleep.

"Oh, laddie" leaning his head down on Arthur's chest, Alasdair groaned in disappointment and caring exasperation. However, as much as it pained him, he understood both of them were tired and so he was quick to gather himself, working to ignore his now dispersing arousal. "To bed with you, then."

Softly unwinding England's arms from around him, Scotland took a moment to get Arthur underneath the covers and flick out the lights before settling down on the other side of the bed. He was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow.

.

.

.

The first set of heavy knocks stirred Scotland awake but were quickly ignored in favour of pulling the sheets tighter around his broad frame and turning on his side. England's old Tudor home was fairly isolated and the possibility of anyone knocking at the middle of the night was narrowed down to a select number of people, most of which were most certainly at least a country away. When the knocking resumed, this time with alarming urgency, Alasdair threw the covers to the side and bolted out of bed, straggling down the stairs, and to the front door.

(It was more than slightly unsettling to hear such insistent rapping during the early hours of the morning and it worried Scotland, memories of times of crisis and late night callings running through his mind.)

Now, Alasdair considered himself to be a reasonable man; coarse around the edges, but just; so when he unlocked the door to find America standing on the doormat, giddy with unfounded excitement after having imprudently rattled the entire house with the force of his knocking, and disturbing Alasdair's much needed sleep, not to mention risking to wake up England, Scotland did what came most natural to him.

"Fuck ye dain, bairn? "

And without waiting for an answer, shut the heavy wood on the boy's deflating smile.

Irritation hot in his veins, he turned around to head back up the stairs when Alfred's booming voice called for him to wait and the incessant knocking picked up. Growling, he threw the door open with a bang to a rush of hasty explanations.

"Scotland! Hey man! Did I wake you up? I'd no idea you were staying over at your brother's. Speaking of which, is England home? Think he's awake? 'Cause I really gotta see him. Think I could step inside for a bit? It's freezing out here! You should throw on a shirt or something."

It took the bleary eyed Scot a moment to make sense of America's jabber but was quick to block the entrance when the youth almost leapt past him.

"Wee one's sleeping" Alasdair gnarled, heavy tongued, and went to close the door again.

"Wait! What? Who?" Alfred's hand shut out to stop him.

Taking a deep breath, Scotland spoke slowly, taking care to soften his accent for the sake of good relations.

"Arthur's sleeping. Lad's run down from work and I'm here tae cut him slack" he scowled, America was really starting to push limits. "Yer out of line coming here at this hour."

America seemed to flinch at that and his demeanour changed into something graver. Looking up at the taller man, Alfred thought to try once more.

"Scotland, please" he hoped to convey what he wanted to say in the tone of his voice. "I want to see him. I n_eed_ to see him, please."

It seemed to work, as Scotland gauged him curiously for a long time. Although uncomfortable under the scrutiny, America made an effort to hold his stare.

The silent exchange continued for continued for a minute before Scotland's eyes widened slightly at whatever he saw in America's, any trace of curiosity gone and replaced with steely determination.

Scotland was _livid_.

"Fuck. Aff."

When the door was slammed shut, America was certain it would not open up again. Defeated (but hoping for a tomorrow), he turned down the driveway and walked away to find a motel.

Stomping up the stairs to the second floor and into the master bedroom, Alasdair silently fumed.

England was thankfully still asleep, facing away from him at the moment and towards his former spot on the bed. Sitting besides the sleeping man, Scotland felt his temper cool.

At some point during the short couple of hours that they had been sleeping, Arthur gave the impression of having kicked off the blankets and lay barely covered in the chilled night air. Alastair remained pensive for a moment, placing a hand on England's arm to find it frigid, and feeling his heart tighten. Pulling the sheets over Arthur's curled figure, he rubbed lightly over the covers as he had done many nights before through the centuries.

"Ye'r freezing lad."

England's voice startled him as said lad turned to face him.

"You stole the blankets"

Scotland responded with a noncommittal grunt, buggered to have been caught, but his hand didn't budge as it would have just about three months ago, merely readjusting. It still felt odd, to be able to act on more intimate thoughts, former platonic gestures heavier with a newfound tenderness neither knew how to accept fully just yet.

So Alasdair took it as his duty to ease the heavy silence, too tired to think about the deeper feelings pooling in both of their eyes.

"Scoot lad, I'm cold" Scotland jabbed Arthur's side offensively.

England frowned deeply, remints of sleep fading, gladly rising up to the challenge.

"I have been sleeping on this side of my bed for over 100 years, and I'll be damned if a hackit bastard like you will change that."

Alasdair smirked widely but stood up from the edge of the bed, stretching until his back popped.

"Very well, ye lazy shit" and what a delightful sneer that got him from Arthur. "I won't make you move."

For a blissful moment, England allowed himself to coddle the thought that maybe for once, _for once, _that would be it.

When Scotland let himself fall on the bed (right on top of England, mind you), all bulk, muscle, and Scottish pride, he felt all possible air leave his lungs with a huff.

"Get off, you fat shitface!" Arthur's voice came out muffled and breathless as he pushed at Alasdair's shoulders. "Haggis shagging bigyin!"

Scotland laughed raucously and nonchalantly got comfortable with England pinned beneath him., shutting his eyes and breathing in England's scent, fresh and light like rain, underneath his cologne. And it was _his _cologne, truly, which only made him laugh longer (albeit lower now that he had his face nestled on the juncture of the sook's neck).

"Wheesht, and stop yer squirming. I'm trying to sleep."

"Piss off, you big oaf" Arthur muttered, but wrapped the one leg that wasn't crushed under Alasdair or covered by the sheets around the Scot.

"Yer foot is baltic. Stop rubbing it on my back."

"You stole the blankets."

"Ye stole my joggers, scunner."

Any trace of smugness on Scotland's part, however, was cut short when England flipped them over, using the leg he'd thrown over the scot to his advantage.

"And I plan on keeping them" Arthur assured him as menacingly serious as one could be half-naked and straddling someone's lap.

Well built and of average height, England was still smaller than Alasdair, who's entire figure was more akin to that of a seasoned rugby player's, and who, at the physical age of 30, measured 6'2 in height (by far the tallest amongst his brothers and sister). Neither were _pretty_, as far as looks were concerned, but rather handsome in their own particular way. In the dim light that filtered through the drapes, however, Scotland fancied the other something close to beautiful.

Bringing up a hand to cup England's face, he smoothed his thumb over the soft skin of Arthur's cheekbone, marvelling at the softening of the lad's gaze and the way he dropped his eyes.

"Yer a right bonnie thing" Scotland gruff voice was pleasant in the quiet of the room.

Instead of gracing the other with an answer right away, England swooped down to steal a long kiss from half parted lips, supporting himself on the bare chest beneath him. Scotland hummed pleasantly and they remained like that for a while, England's hands roaming up and down and Scotland's static on the brit's waist, until the dovetailing of lips gave way to the slipping past of tongues and the measured sharpness of teeth, and both were half-hard for the second time that evening.

As his hands began to roam lower, Arthur's mouth followed, pressing nips and open mouthed kisses to Alasdair's collarbone. He looked at ease, settled there, thoroughly planning on kissing Scotland silly. And Scotland was quite content to lay back and let him, were it not for the fact that they were yet to get even.

He snored loudly, and when England's eyes shot up in concern he had to hold back a laugh and settled for a grin, because the lad looked ready to bite him when he realised the eldest was awake and mocking him. Arthur retaliated by rolling his hips, and was pleased when Alasdair's grin slipped away into a moan. Arching an eyebrow, he repeated the motion. Scotland's hips tittered and England was quick to steady him, pressing down on the dips of his pelvis.

Tracing his lips even lower, Arthur pressed long, wet kisses to Scotland's lower abdomen but stayed clear from were Alasdair really wanted him. When a hand sneaked down to palm him through the softened, grey fabric, Scotland thrust up with a low sigh. On this occasion, England's hands let him, pulling on the trousers and slipping them off halfway down Alasdair's shins for him to kick off easily.

Scotland grumbled, suddenly exposed, but settled when one of Arthur's hands wrapped around him and began pumping softly, coaxing him harder; the other slipping lower between strong thighs to nudge them further apart. Alasdair obliged and the Englishman was soon lodged between them, kissing the base of Scotland cock, and tracing his tongue up the underside. Taking the head in his mouth, he sucked hard, and Scotland had to groan, wanting more of the tightness of England's lips, and coming to tangle his fingers in fair blonde hair. Arthur pulled back for a moment, continuing to pump the hardened flesh in his hands, and working on relaxing his throat. When he took in almost all of Scotland in one go, Alasdair cried out and dug his other hand into the mussed mess of England's hair, making an effort to not force himself any deeper in fear of choking Arthur.

Kneading the soft strands of gold encouragingly, Scotland felt himself flush under England's ministrations, soft grunts slipping past his lips as he slowly lost himself in the soft pleasure, closer to the edge with each talented twist of Arthur's tongue and every tug on his balls. Alasdair grunted, thrusting with restraint, when England sucked hard and hummed softly; when he looked down to find England's nose brushing the coarse hairs low on his abdomen and felt his arousal coil tight at the dusted blush of Arthur's cheeks.

"Arthur, laddie" he tightened his grip on England's hair in warning, words breathless.

Arthur tightened his throat and lips as Scotland went taut and then slack, swallowing as best as he could and sucking softly until the broad hands buried in his hair tugged him upwards to meet Scotland's lips and then pushed him down and on his side, Alasdair's arms coming to wrap around his waist and drawing him back into a lightly heaving chest.

England's short briefs were soon discarded, and he leaned back into Scotland, responding to the scot's roving of hands with soft pleased noises, and easing his head to the side as Alasdair grazed his teeth over the nape of his neck. When a hand began to quickly stroke Arthur's shaft, he gasped, hard and dripping.

"That's it, laddie" Scotland squeezed and England made an almost pained sound and blushed bright red. "My braw hen."

With a sustained moan, Arthur spilled himself onto Scotland's hand, clutching at the sheets as he shuddered whole. Alastair secured his limbs around the him and they remained in that close embrace until the heated skin of their bodies began to cool and their breathing steadied.

The sky outside was beginning to clear when Arthur shrugged off his dress shirt and wiped down the stickiness off both of their bodies and hands, tossing the dirtied oxford to the pile of clothes next to the antique chair, and laying back down next to Scotland. They drifted off to sleep draped over each other and buried underneath the blankets, paperwork and American unrest forgotten.

* * *

I must admit that I had a wee bit of trouble deciding on what to name Scotland. I ended up settling for Alasdair more than ahything because I find it has a very pleasing resonance.

I want to write more about England's and Scotland's interactions soon; I've already started on a oneshot for the Acts of Union in 1707, and a multi-chapter featuring all of the Kirklands, but it might have to wait (as I'll be busy with work for a couple of weeks still). The next update might take a little longer, so I'll try and make it up to you guys with some sort of drabble, maybe. I'm not too happy with how that little sexy scene turned out, I definitely need some practice, as it's the first time I've ever written smut.

Should anyone have any trouble with terminologies, I'd be delighted to clear up any confusion.

Cheers!

-HyfrydCymru

PD; Next chapter: introducing Wales and America fuking up.


	4. Surprisingly Domestic

Morning was well broken in when Alasdair awoke to clattering in the kitchen and an empty bed. He took a moment to close his eyes again and shift, comfortable enough where he was shielded from the cold and too bright morning sun, and relaxed for a while longer. It was palatable, he'd admit if prodded, to wake up in Arthur's bed without so much of a hurry, and the sound of unwieldy hustling downstairs, the faint scent of tea and burnt toast luring him into alertness. It was precisely that, and the grumbling of his stomach, that finally got him out of bed. Making quick work of yesterday's boxer briefs, as they were the first thing his eyes feel upon (joggers lost somewhere between the sheets), he padded barefooted down the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen, which promised food amongst other things.

Walking in to find Arthur freshly showered and fully dressed, standing by the counter, his hands busied with preparing breakfast, wasn't anything remarkable. He'd rolled up his sleeves and had yet to fasten the tie that hung loose around his neck, but looked noticeably sharper than he had the night before, product of a good night's rest. It may have been that or perhaps the relaxed slant of Arthur's shoulders as he stood in aureate sunlight, that made Scotland feel inclined to wax poetic when the other bid him a pleasant good morning without turning away from his task, settling instead to pressing a sluggish kiss to England's temple, and moving on to slouch on one of the chairs around the breakfast table. A plate of toast was already set on the wooden surface and Scotland was quick to snatch one as England approached with only one plate of food in hand.

"I already ate" he answered before Scotland had the chance to ask, and set the plate in front of the scot.

"I'll cook tomorrow" Alasdair offered as a way of thanks around a mouthful of toast.

Arthur and Alasdair were both similarly graced with (arguably) standard cooking skills, but measured a decent eight or nein in a ten scale regarding to breakfasts exclusively. Likely, it rooted back to the fact that Wales (by far the most proficient cook) was a too early riser, beating even England at the best of times, and therefore refused to start brewing her first cup of tea any later that seven in the morning. Any prospect of a later breakfast depended on whoever took it upon his self to provide the rest of the family with a filling meal, or was left alone for each individual to solve.

"How gracious of you" Arthur replied without missing a beat and seating down across from the eldest. "I'll pass by the market on my way home, then."

"Ye coming in late?" Scotland inquired, taking a bite from the eggs on his plate.

"Not if I can help it, " Arthur promised, more to himself than to the man sitting opposite to him. "I'll just pick up whatever it is they need me to oversee and bring it back with me. I'd much rather work here than anywhere near Parliament, today," he took a sip from a steaming cup of Earl Grey before adding as an afterthought. "And you're here."

Alasdair hummed his assent and allowed himself a brief moment of reasonable smugness.

"Ye missed me, laddie?"

Arthur scoffed and slid the saltshaker to the other side of the table for Scotland to catch. Standard cooking skills or not, the eggs were still quite bland.

"Hardly" he assured the red head with a smirk of his own.

(Had England answered with a 'yes', Scotland would have concurred, but neither felt it necessary to point out.)

"Ye wound me."

"Good."

Alasdair looked up from where he was thoroughly coating his food with more sodium than was healthy to Arthur's cool countenance and impish eyes. Nonchalantly stretching his legs underneath the table, he trapped England's calced feet between his own bare ones, and tugged on them, pulling them until they where half way between the both of them. Arthur arched an eyebrow but otherwise kept still, apparently content with their new position.

The rest of breakfast was spent in silence, save for the commonplace tinkering of silverware and occasional offhand remark about the weather. England had to eventually untangle his feet from Scotland's, earning himself a grunt, to go and set his cup in the sink.

"America came tae see ye last night" Alasdair informed to Arthur's turned back.

England veered to look at his brother and frowned.

"Aye. Havered on about some urgent matter 'e had with ye. Rattled the whole house with his knocking. I'm surprised ye didn't hear us" Alasdair gulped the last of his tea and stood to join Arthur by the sink with his soiled tableware. "I'll do the dishes."

"Suit yourself" England pecked Scotland's shoulder distractedly and stepped around him to reach for a manila folder at the far end of the counter and leafing through the documents inside. "I can't imagine America wanting anything too important. Whatever it was, he's probably forgotten. Brilliant as that boy is, and as agreeable as he has been acting these past few months, he could learn some restraint," there was a beat of silence. When he spoke again, he did so casually, distrait. "I'll tidy up the bedroom later, as I expect it we will make a right mess of it soon enough. We've yet to shag properly and I'm quite intent on riding you into the mattress the moment I get back."

A plate clattered from out of Alasdair's hands. Arthur simpered, and didn't have to wait long for a reaction.

"Ah ya bastard!" Scotland roared and darted to catch Arthur, wet hands dripping on the kitchen floor, only to miss and crash into the counter when the Englishman sped past him.

Seeing that the kitchen was much too small for their antics, the chase transitioned to the living room with the odds pointing to Arthur's favour, more so when Alasdair slipped on the discarded documents that had been dropped in the mad dash away from the scot's arms the moment they had passed the threshold. If anything, it proved to be a minor delay; Alasdair may not have been the most gracious man, but his stance was sturdy and it took more than just slip for him to loose his footing, On the other hand, Arthur was as quick to run as he was quick to think himself victor, and Scotland knew. So, in a last gamble, he leapt forwards with every intention of tackling Arthur into the armchair behind the blond, who squawked out an indignant string of curses in between his laughter when the scot succeeded, and was cut off only by Alasdair's hungry mouth on his, stealing the breath of his words.

The position they were in was uncomfortable at best, knees and elbows digging into flesh as teeth clacked painfully, but it was all worth the way Scotland flushed red, colour spreading down his neck and chest in a way that was lovely and not so much uncharacteristic as it was new, in the sense that now Arthur was free to cool the burning of Scotland's blush with the cool palm of his hand.

They went no further than that to Arthur's disgruntled relief, and even with the small merry chase they found time to spare before England's departure (who did, in the end, tidy up the upstairs bedroom; going as far as getting the washing machine going while Scotland finished the dishes). There was a fuss to find the old Chevy's car keys and Scotland offered his own along with the often-expressed disapprovement he felt towards England's choice of vehicle. To which England responded with a tasteless line about riding on something else that was Scottish-owned and nearly died laughing when Scotland huffily disappeared upstairs with a two fingered salute as a way of farewell and a glare to match (but watched the Chevy drive off from the second floor window for reasons left unspoken).

Jumping in the shower for a proper scrub, Alasdair indulged on letting the warm water run down his back as he inspected the small print on Arthur's almost depleted, 2-in-1 shampoo, and couldn't find a reason not to use the last of it and then linger under the spray of the showerhead for a while longer. (At some point he decided that if there was one commodity he'd be unwilling to relinquish, it would be running water.)

There was a guest bedroom in the house that Scotland had taken as his own a few decades ago and held a considerable amount of his belongings; mostly odd personal articles, and a few pairs of shirts and trousers, while the books that had originally belonged to him had found a snug place in between Arthur's older favourites downstairs, in the small library he kept next to his study. This arrangement had been made for practicity's sake, and now more than ever it was proving to be a convenient setup, even when the bed was barely touched.

Midday found Alasdair scouring the rows and rows of classics in search of _Tales of the Crusaders_ without any foreseeable success. It took him a while to desist in his search but finally got distracted by a beaten edition of _Peveril of the Peak,_ settling on that title instead and bringing it to the living room with him to kill time. Lately it hadn't been only England that had been buried in paperwork, and a slow paced day was a welcomed blessing. There was a chance, even, that Arthur would be done with work sooner if he offered a hand, and that both would have a few days for themselves. Getting the scunner to cooperate would be the hardest part, but as long as there were no more undesired visits from overseas, Scotland's fun would not be spoiled.

When he heard the sound of distinct knocking on the door, he almost crushed the teacup in his hand.

.

On the other hand, Arthur made it to Downing Street in half the time he thought he would make, but any time he'd saved was soon proved worthless by the slow running governmental communication system. Ideally, he would have received his appointed tasks and reasoned with the PM regarding the chosen electoral process in less than an hour or two, then proceeded to the Parliamentary offices to settle a few quarrels and hand in the due batch of paperwork only to be presented with another. With that done, he would have run to the market to grab something neither him nor Scotland would ruin too terribly, and that would be all. He'd head back, and the day would carry on at a milder pace. That, of course, was too wistful thinking on his behalf.

Regardless, he'd finished running whatever errands were sent his way as quickly as quality would allow, and was finished packing his new workload only a couple of hours later than was originally intended. It was only a moment before he left that a secretary caught up to him in his office with a message from the front desk.

She'd rapped gently on the doorframe and Arthur had politely motioned for her to come in and speak. To say he was surprised would be inaccurate; to say he was pleased, even more so.

"Sir, there's a man here to see you; a Mr Jones. Shall I send him in?"

.

.

.

Scotland cursed under his breath when he went to open the door, expecting to find America standing on the other side, and bracing himself for yet another confrontation with the loud-mouthed rocket. Opening the door to find a wide-eyed Wales was not what Scotland had expected.

"Cariad," it took Alasdair a moment to greet the young woman in the threshold.

"Good morning to you, Alasdair," Wales smiled kindly, as was her usual fashion, but her eyes were inquisitive. "Seen a dreary sight, have you?"

"Only you," Scotland stepped aside to let her in and closed the door with a considerable amount of care compared to the way he'd thrown it open. "Tea?"

"No, thank you. I've just drank a week's worth on the ride here." she followed Scotland into the living room and remained standing when the man sat.

"As you like."

"I thought you'd be heading north by now," Cariad walked to the back of the room, where a bookshelf stood, and after a quick survey pulled out a thick volume on Iberian folklore. "Decided to stay for a while?"

"For as long as the lad will have me," Scotland confirmed in jest.

"Then I'd suggest you pack a bigger bag, or pack a small bundle here and take Arthur back with you."

Scotland snorted.

"The lad would kick me out in a week's time. I get on his nerves too often" he proclaimed proudly.

"Aye, that you do. But you also do more good than harm," Wales set the book on the coffee table. "Arthur's happier when you drop by. And your temper becomes a lot easier to deal with. You rub off on each other."

"Can be," Scotland allowed. "Ye still have business here?"

"I need the PM's signature on some documents, yes; and then I'm taking a long, lovely, blissful holiday by the sea, with that lovely anthology there," Cariad dropped ungracefully on a green stripped loveseat with a sigh. "And they can all piss off: MPs, PM, every government official. The bloody Queen can piss off," she leant back on the backrest and looked terribly dishevelled even in the pencil skirt and white blouse that she had donned for the day, loose strands of dark hair slipping form the braided bun that had loosened since yesterday, and spoke volumes of how she had spent the night.

Scotland groaned to himself and regretted his decision before going through with it.

"Would ye like me to drive ye there, a leanbh?"

Cariad's fair smile made him regret it a wee bit less.

.

"Alfred, whatever it is, make it quick," England cut to the chase the moment America appeared at the other side of the threshold. "I was not expecting your visit, as you might understand, and have more than my fair share of assignments to fulfil."

Arthur's curt tone made Alfred feel much inclined to turning around while he could and forget the impulse that had brought him here altogether. He'd spent a rough night in tight cot in a motel, second guessing everything he'd thought settled after his regretful clash with Scotland, and mulling over all the times he had acted imprudently around England. It seemed more childish than enthusiastic in the light of day, and he'd had too much for breakfast but not nearly enough for lunch in his anxiousness, which left him feeling sick and his head reeling in a strange sort of sensation that urged him to forget. If though of rationally, it couldn't be worth it or prudent to do what he had done and follow through with what he thought he wanted in hopes it was what England wanted too. It was a big risk to be taking in such a short notice.

"Alfred?"

But then there was the way Arthur's brow furrowed, and the tea stain that adorned his left cuff, the pleasant cadence of his voice, whether he was angry or content, and the way he muttered in under his breath in a language that Alfred couldn't understand, but wanted to learn from Arthur's lips. There was black ink rubbed on his index finger and right thumb, and it was the small details like that caught his eye and drew him in.

It was now or never, America realised with a start, and took the last of his motivation to approach the increasingly perplexed country before him and place a hand on the side of his neck.

He went for it, closing his eyes and the distance between them, with a warm feeling in his chest that seemed to pound against his ribs in a pace his heart couldn't possibly match; their lips so close he could feel England's breath brushing his skin…

Only to be immediately pushed back by a sturdy hand on his chest, and opening his eyes to find an infuriated set of greens glaring at him for the second time already.

* * *

I'm sorry for taking so long! I'm really behind in my thesis and have to step up my game or I won't make it in time.

Once again, thank you so so much for your kind reviews; they make my day brighter and I end up with a big dopey smile. I didn't quite like how this chapter turned out but I hope you enjoy it.

Scotland strikes me as the kind of caring older brother who insults his siblings and pushes them around a bit but acts reliable when needed. His temper does get milder when he's in a good mood, same with England (hence the dick jokes). Wales was right in her assumptions; they do rub on each other sometimes and the results are often good.

The next update might take me less to post but, in the mean time, I'll be posting some oneshots on tumblr (and eventually here). So check 'em out if ya'll want to. Url's eldest-and-youngest-of-three.

Thanks again and until the next time!

-HyfrydCymru


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